Suffrage
by ink.and.petals
Summary: The evening after the women’s rights riot, Sybil goes to apologise to Branson at his cottage. Events take an unexpected turn, but can their friendship be salvaged after what she put him through?


It suddenly occurred to Sybil, as she hurried down the lane, that she had never been to the chauffeur's cottage before. Mary would often remark that her baby sister spent half her life in the garage, which of course certainly was not true (not at this point in time, at least), but Sybil had never had any need to journey on that short but significant distance between the garage and the cottage. She had not befriended Taylor, whom her family had employed as their chauffeur for as long as she could remember, and until now, whenever she'd wished to see Branson he was always in the garage.

This whole affair was all her fault, yet it was he who would no doubt get the blame for her deceit. She'd practiced her apology over and over in her mind, hoping against hope he'd forgive her, and she'd anticipated this would be the greatest challenge of her evening... yet it seemed the toughest thing was just to knock on the door.

She filled her lungs with a frosty wind's blow and rapped her knuckles against the wood.

When he opened the door, Sybil almost burst out crying. Branson wasn't angry at all; he was nothing but relieved. His ocean eyes twinkled with surprise, but there was no trace of a grudge towards her.

The next thing that struck her, as unladylike as it was, was that his waistcoat buttons were undone and his tie was not present. His hair was messy, not greatly so but not precisely combed as she'd so often seen it. His eyes were the same as always, however. Pure and honest and liberating. She'd rarely seen him without his livery jacket, let alone as he was now! But it wasn't embarrassment or discomfort that filled her; it was lust. It was the urge to join her lips to his and run her hands through his hair and moan as he took her wait in her hands and...

"You're all right."

His voice, as deep and gentle as it was, startled Sybil. Although, if she was being honest with herself, it wasn't his voice that shook her but rather the realisation of where her thoughts had lead her and how greatly she wished for this fantasy to become a reality.

Inwardly demanding she get a grip, she began, "Perfectly. Branson, I-I..." She faltered. The speech she had prepared wasn't right. It may have done the trick to her father's friends and Mary's suitors, but this was Branson. It would probably do more harm then good to treat him as such a person. This caused her to stammer, "It was not my intention... I didn't mean..." until she finally settled on, "I'm so sorry."

"As long as you're all right, it doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters, you - "

"Milady," he interjected, "it's all right. I can hardly encourage you to take an interest in the movement and then dislike it when you wish to attend a meeting for yourself."

There was a glint in his eye, one which Sybil shamefully recognised as the result of betrayal. After all, that's what she'd done, wasn't it? Betrayed her dearest friend.

"I shouldn't have tricked you."

"We all make mistakes."

Even with this assurance she could see the sadness in his eyes hadn't shifted, as hadn't the guilt-formed rock that lay upon her lungs, but with his words he was offering a way to peace for them both.

She beamed, a beautiful, pure smile that lifted both their spirits.

He said, "You should be resting."

"I'm quite fine, truly."

A gust of wind shook Sybil's slender frame, and when she made no effort to leave this prompted Branson to say with some hesitation, "Do you want to come in, Milady?"

Sybil had to admit, that idea hadn't even crossed her mind. But, after today's events, after the long fight with her father, and enduring what felt like an endless war of trying to make people understand Branson wasn't at fault, it seemed like a beautiful, tempting thought.

The scandal there would be if this ever got out! But the most part of Downton Abbey was asleep, the specific reason why she had chosen this hour to see him, safe in the knowledge know one would discover them. And it was so very cold tonight, and she was so dreadfully tired...

"I'd like that," she answered.

He seemed slightly shocked at first, which had surprised her, considering he was the one who had made this suggestion. But she supposed it was one thing to offer, it was another thing entirely to accept. His shock melted into a welcoming smile that made her heart flutter, and he held back the door to allow her to enter another part of his world.

Warmth flooded in from a small fire that was lit in a room to her left. The door was only slightly ajar, so even if she wished to pry, which was certainly not her intention, all she could see was the amber glow that seeped through the crack in the not-quite-closed door. The room she was currently in was only slightly bigger than her bedroom, yet was both a sitting area and a kitchen. There was a small table by the kitchen, presumably for eating yet the papers scattered across it suggested this doubled up as a desk. An armchair as well as a small settee (which was probably only big enough for two people) were placed in the space between the kitchen and the front door. A shelf was positioned in the corner opposite to the door, upon which rested a small selection of books. To complete the chauffeur's cottage, to Sybil's right she spotted one more closed door, which Sybil discovered through process of elimination must be either a water closet or the bedroom. The thought of this made her cheeks flush.

To occupy her wandering mind, as Branson closed the door on the evening's bitterness Sybil investigated his collection of books. There were eleven in total, yet only four were in a language she recognised. These four were claimed with the name 'J. S. Mill', whom she recalled Branson mentioning during previous political discussions was an author he admired.

Her eyes flicked back to the other seven collections of battered papers, ruling out the option that they were French. Foreign language was not her best subject, but what she did know of France's mother-tongue for once came in use. But what would Branson know French for, anyway? She doubted they spoke much of it in Ireland.

As if he could hear the thoughts circling her head he answered, "Gaelic."

Of course! "Are they all politics?"

She heard a deep chuckle rise from his throat. "I can't say I read much else."

At this her head snapped round. "Do you not read any fiction?"

"I've never had much interest in it. Do you want a drink, Milady?"

Why did her body tense when he addressed her in this manner? As much as both liked to forget, she _was_ his superior in many's eyes and he was required to address her by her title. Yet it felt foreign to her. Cold.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you. Both milk and sugar please, three sugars, if that's all right." she added when she saw his lower lip drop to ask.

A smirk drifted across his lips, and she felt herself begin to relax, truly relax, for the first time in weeks. It was only when she and Gwen were plotting or Branson was driving her - and her alone - that Sybil could laugh honestly and talk openly. Both were times she ached for and treasured.

"Will three sugars be enough, Milady? Or if you prefer, I can just tip in the whole pot,"

A warm feeling bubbled up inside him as he witnessed her smile. God, she looked so beautiful here, although she was dressed in no doubt the most basic clothes she owned. Her blouse and skirt were both plain; the former was a pale tone of cream and the latter a dark shade of blue. Her hair was pinned not nearly as extravagantly as usual and she wore no makeup nor jewellery. Yet despite this, she seemed to be more beautiful than she ever had, stood here in _his_ home, just as if she belonged here.

A slight giggle (which for him was a heavenly sound) escaped her lips as she said, "Four will do perfectly, thank you."

He chortled, not caring what this sounded like for she could always make him laugh in such a way. He had become easy with the idea of her familiarity with the side of him he usually protected from view, as with him she too had opened a sheltered part of herself.

"Take a seat." he said, vaguely gesturing to his modest collection of furniture, before he stepped the whole few metres to the kitchen. The low groan of the kettle drowned out any chance of conversation, which gave Sybil sometime to collect her thoughts.

Not quite sure which seat he had meant, Sybil lowered herself onto the sofa, surprised at the comforting sinking sensation that occurred when she did so. This was not at all like the settees her parents owned, which were such hard, unforgiving places to rest oneself. But this was soft and light, although made it very hard to adopt a ladylike position. Deciding that if there was one person on this earth she was not greatly fussed over slouching with it was Branson, she let her body mould to the cushions.

When he returned shortly after and handed her her beverage, she wondered if he noticed her natural position.

He had not; in fact his mind had taken him down a similar route to hers, but to a destination that he doubted ever had, or ever would, cross her mind. He noted how relaxed she looked, yes, but not in the way she was concerned with. He was admiring how at ease she seemed in the place in which he lived, and for a second, _just a second_, he allowed himself to wonder if this was how she'd sit, how she'd smile, how her fingers would brush his as he handed her the mug, if they were in their own home.

Before he could get caught up in dreams, he took to the armchair opposite and both enjoyed a sip of their drink.

"Do you read much fiction?" he asked before their silence would become uncomfortable.

"Oh yes! It's simply marvellous, to become lost in such art. An entirely new world to explore."

A smile spread across his face at the enthusiasm she spoke with. "Who's your favourite author?"

"Jane Austen, I think. I do love her work. Pride and Prejudice is my favourite novel, which is written by her."

She took another swig of tea, inwardly smiling as she felt its warmth soak through her body.

This chatter grew friendlier as time progressed, both relaxing more and more as the conversations developed, until they'd finished their drinks. Branson took her mug with his into the kitchen, but this time Sybil followed so she could continue with her argument in their current debate.

"Tradition is important to the people of this country. Not the same traditions that sculpt aristocratic lives, perhaps, but family traditions. The way the turkey's cooked at Christmas, for example. It's small but significant. Traditions are heartfelt, whether their personal or national."

"Whether traditions are heartfelt or not is another matter. The fact is, so called traditions rob children of the chance to have an education because they're expected to work; throws money away from those who need it and into pointless parties and balls; means women don't have the vote. The question is: are traditions more important than lives?"

"Of course not!" Sybil cried, rattled at how awful it sounded in black and white - 'it' being something her family supported, and she was expected to support. _But 'it' _isn't_ black and white_, she told herself. "It's not as simple as that."

"Isn't it?"

"No."

As they'd been speaking, Branson had filled the sink with hot water and started to clean the mugs. Sybil, feeling the need to do something, took the towel from his side and waited for him to pass her something to dry.

"And I don't think you can put the disregard for the women's vote down to tradition. It's only because men have power that women are trying to be silenced."

"Men that are in those positions of power because that's the way it's done - that's tradition."

Sybil opened her mouth in annoyance, recalled when her grandmother insisted it made her look like a fish, and promptly shut it again. He'd won - this time.

But that didn't mean she'd let him have the final word.

Quite without warning, Sybil dipped her hand into the soapy water and flicked a few drops at Branson, only she misjudged the velocity required and sent a tsunami his way.

"Oh golly I'm sorry!" she cried, absolutely horrified, as she witnessed the shock mould his features. "I didn't think that much would... OH!"

She gasped and screamed a little as she too became soaked to the bone, at his hand. She wasn't quite sure how to react (how does one respond to such unladylike actions with a young man?) but before she could do anything further, Branson's chest began to shake and his eyes glimmer with mischief, and seconds later they were both doubled over with laughter, drops falling from their skin.

**xxx**

At this late hour, in a cottage she should not strictly be in, Sybil sighed contently and caressed the softness of her skirt which sheltered her legs, her vision becoming blurry with exhaustion.

It had felt good to mop the floor with Branson - kneeling with him, side by side as two equals who were engaged in something truly useful. It felt pleasing to have tasted what housework entailed, even if she was only experiencing the faintest flavour. Of course, being the kind man whom he was, Branson had attempted to persuade her to let him clean up alone, but she'd insisted; it was she who'd started the whole thing.

Branson had gone to make them each another cup - four sugars, no less - leaving Sybil to reflect on the day for the second time that evening. Oh my, what a day! It seemed their relationship had not broken but flourished from her mistake, and that made her smile widely all the way to her eyes. Their mutual strength carried them safely into another day. She had a true friend in Branson, come what may. That statement - so short but so powerful - was not something she had hand-on-heart been able to say prior to now.

"Thank you," she told him as he returned, and it seemed they were reliving earlier's scene of drinking tea and talking, only this time his hair was darker and small patches of her clothing hung to her, both as a result of the tsunamis they had endured. But both Sybil and Branson could have remained there all night and still believed it had only been ten minutes.

Their current discussion concerned what was to be done to help the poor, and Sybil couldn't help but stare at him in awe, for the passion he felt was pouring out of him in such a liberating, attractive way. From his eloquence to his voice, his eyes to his hands, it was clear for all to see this was a man who could change the world if he had the chance. She desperately hoped he would. All those people he could help, never mind fulfilling his greatest ambition.

He paused, allowing her to give her opinion, and although she filled his silence she couldn't deny her body's reaction to how handsome he looked in this light. His shirt was tighter on his arms from the dampness, and she couldn't stop her eyes from journeying up his arms, and oh, how she wished he didn't have a waistcoat on, for he was truly so -

"Why didn't you tell me?"

His question through her, as did the return of the glint in his eye - the glint of betrayal.

"Tell you what?"

"About your plan."

The whole mood between them changed. There was a tension there, one both wished to be rid of. But he needed to know, which she understood and respected.

"I didn't think you'd take me." she confessed, a blush creeping up her neck.

"I've taken you to rallies before."

"I knew you wouldn't think it safe."

"And now we know I had good reason."

Her cheeks were on fire now. How could she have been so foolish? The fact even Branson would have said no surely must have set alarm bells ringing! Yet, childishly, she'd chosen to ignore them.

To her complete and utter surprise, Branson knelt before her, his hand lightly on her forearm. "Please don't scare me like that again. Promise me you won't."

His voice was dripping with desperation, and Sybil swore she could feel a crack spill through her heart at the sound. He looked so much younger; he was no longer the courageous and wise man she had come to admire but a lost boy, searching for comfort. His fingers slowly moved down her arm until they tickled the top of her wrist, but this action took such little of her attention for his gaze was so very penetrating.

"I promise," she vowed. "I promise."

His lips tweaked upwards as he stood, and it was only then his hand on her arm made her shiver - not for the presence of it, but for the disappearance of it.

_I promise_ she swore, this time to herself. As if he could read her mind, Branson concluded the moment as quickly as he had initiated it.

"Good."


End file.
